


Mortality & Morality (Act 2... still in progress)

by Ren_tal_Demon



Series: Mortality & Morality [2]
Category: No Fandom
Genre: Author Is Sleep Deprived, Author is tired, Dark, Death, Demons, Everyone is an idiot, Hell, Hell Trauma, How Do I Tag, I have no idea, If it’s not written do we have to acknowledge it, Inappropriate use of sarcasm, Light Angst, Major Character Undeath, Major character death - Freeform, Minor death, Original Character Death(s), Original Fiction, Original Universe, Sarcastic author, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, The Author is Trying, This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think, abelone has the only braincell, about, but it’s slightly a, dimitri is also an, firstly, gotta unleash my inner, head empty, heaven is not touched, how do you write, idiot, im bad at tagging, im sorry, is there a happy ending, it might not be for sensitive readers, light fluff, only hellions here, sorry - Freeform, stupid, the catacombs of Paris, the main character is, writing is hard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-17 15:13:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28851144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ren_tal_Demon/pseuds/Ren_tal_Demon
Summary: Dumb teen. Stupid time logistics. And finally, demons. Wow. That’s all we want, isn’t it?
Series: Mortality & Morality [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2074233





	1. Act ii, Scene i

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dumb teen, read it and weep at his actions. !!!Warning for mentions of murder, blood, and plain dark things.!!! Comment if I need to add a warning or tag.

As time is a concept of men, hell exists as ever-existent yet never, ever breaching the realm of time.

\- a note from the author

.o0o.

"The tomb under the recent death flexed and relaxed, a dark hole swallowing the body into the grime and rot below.

As for the body already in the ground? He climbed out into the sun..." ¹

The corpse moved at a leisurely pace towards exiting the cemetery. With a large stretch, cracking joints, and reforming skin and sinew, the demon determinedly headed to the town. He needed an espresso.

Crawling his way up from hell, breaking and creating a hole in the fabric between the world, and using the momentum of shoving a soul into hell to bring himself to the surface... had taken most of his energy for the next month or so.

In addition to those events and actions, he'd reanimated a dead corpse. He had forced the decomposition to reverse, the bones to mend, the sludge-filled veins to flow, removed the rigor mortis, and clicked himself into place to control the brain's newly replenished connections. 

Not a task for the weak. Not to say that this demon is particularly strong, but he did just do that and is still conscious enough to get himself coffee...so. 

After rifling in his pockets, breaking into the car next to the cemetery, and spying a couple of quarters in common busy-bodied paths, he had enough for at least a single shot of espresso. The demon immediately walked into the next coffeehouse he saw.

A teen, due to end his shift in nearly 20 minutes, smiled contentedly at the man who'd seemed to need any amount of energy at all. Mentally he said, "same." Thinking nothing of a man who looked the part of either a sleepwalker or one close to death, he asked for the customer's name.

"Dimitri."

The demon, who somehow had an adequate name even though he was, in fact, a demon, smiled as if he'd just heard the punchline of a convoluted joke. He then left as he came, but now with an espresso. 

Dimitri looked back at the barista, the teen, caught his eye, and shot back the entire thing. He left with a smile, throwing the tiny cup away, and a two-finger salute.

Espresso would never beat the bitterness of a soul trialed through anguish. Additionally, he's died. No further elaboration needed. 

The teen blinked at the actions. Huh. 

He found it interesting, actually, that people could withstand such extremes. He found the quirky people in his community intriguing, and, at the very least, attributed some things he'd found to be of cryptid origin. 

Oh, yeah. The lady down his street was definitely a witch. It wasn't like the plants around her house were the most exotic around, or her various pets had human qualities or anything. 

She was either a witch or had a super green thumb. It didn't explain the orange tabby nodding or shaking its head at questions, the crows, and the bones. The scattered bones.

The teen packed up and fled the abandoned coffeehouse. 

He saw the espresso dude twice that next week. The teen added him to a folder in his notes app called "cryptids & creeps". There were only three other notes. 

Arriving home one day, his mother had the television on the news while she spoke on the phone in the kitchen. 

He cleaned up, gathered some snacks, and settled into listening in on local events. 

"..at the old Sawer house this morning, a body of a dead lamb was found by young Jess Tate, a 13 year.."

Hmm. He started another note. He also shoved a handful of crisps into his mouth.

Small towns had small crimes. Everything was out and open for everyone to see, and it was also behind locked doors, in whispers, and in kept stories. All of the teenage drama, soccer mom troubles, and legal debates were at the forefront. The other dealings were pushed to the back if no one wanted to speak of them. 

This was also a case of small towns. The weird and wacky stories were too weird, too strange, and the very reason why he kept notes. 

Anyways, why does anyone think that mutilating a lamb is any fun? Does his town have a cult now? It wouldn't surprise anyone. 

The lamb case disappeared in his thoughts, in the community's thoughts, and everything was normal by the end of the month. Everything resumed into normalcy. He kept working in the Café. Coffee dude was a regular. 

Then, the coffee dude disappeared and the murders started. 

The bodies, from what he'd heard, were decapitated as said in the very title of the murderer. They called him the "headless sailor" for no good reason other than it caught on, and no one made a better name before everyone latched on to it.

It was a stupid name. 

All the bodies had been found in the lake after an incident of some kids going for a swim. They'd dislodged the bodies from the waters being sloshed, then the dead floated to the surface. Goodness, how would you react to that? 

What did it look like?

It itched at his thoughts. The lake was only a short walk away from his house. What good would it bring to check the scene out? It was the lake. The lake he'd grown up jumping into and the lake where he'd skipped rocks wouldn't have changed from the bodies. 

Yet, the significance of more than one dead body felt like something should be different. Something should be distinctive or changed. It was only the spot of the most recent nation-known event in years that had happened to the town and the body dump of a very dangerous killer. 

Yep. He had to check it out. 

¹ (excerpt from act i, scene i, at the very end of the text.)


	2. Act ii, Scene ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uhhh... teen boy is stupid? And looks at a serial killer’s dumping ground? Obviously, bad things occur because he is stupid

The water was murky, the edges were completely mud-ridden, and he heard a frog croak on the left side. The lake lapped at the edges of its bank while the breeze blew leaves onto its surface. It looked normal to him. 

He couldn't— nothing in him had any capacity to understand that legitimate dead bodies had floated in this lake. There had been dead bodies only a week before close to where he stood in the treeline.

The sky was a neat orange and blue, faded, and echoing the dim and dirty water. When younger, he had spent his time fishing, sitting on the little dock, and exploring the empty buildings at the edges. Only one stood like it did when he was 10.

As he moved forward his shoes sunk into the wet soil. 

Carved names, initials, curses, faded graffiti, and holes littered the walls of the building. He walked and twisted to get to its door through leaves and unkempt shrubbery. 

The lock twisted open with a shuddering movement in the surrounding walls. Most likely seen for the first time in over 5 years, the room was an unfiltered space covered with cobwebs, cigarette butts, cans, and leaves— all sun-bleached. 

Stepping into the folded over and wilderness infested structure, the teen didn't trust that any part of it could hold his weight. He trod carefully. 

The end open to the water— where a boat could have been docked a long while ago— cracked and ended with the wear and tear of the pool below. It held his weight as he rocked foot to foot. He sat and ate a bag of chips from his backpack. 

Flies and cranes, dragonflies, and cormorants lived nearby, on the water, in the air. Even abandoned homes like these had other inhabitants using its space. 

He'd sit here when he was younger, conspire, avoid school, avoid life, and stare at the water. He'd do this same thing only to rid himself of daily stress. Now, he was here to see the source of anxiety and worry his entire town had gained over the last month and a half. 

No, he was not a world-renowned detective. No, he was not any sort of government official. He wasn't even an adult yet, and nevertheless, he sat in the vicinity of danger. 

Time moved on and the room became boring. The teen walked out. A foot caught on the frame of the door, and he tripped out of it.

All of his sight focused on the one thing he didn't see before. At this level, dried blood, in patches, splatters, and finally symbols with intent were prevalent and bold. Oh... 

He scrambled to his feet, gathering his bag at his chest. Hesitating to move, focusing on the very proof that disaster would strike— had struck, he stepped towards the symbols then back again. 

Oh, his teenage curiosity and premature ability to control his recklessness kept him there for more time than needed. For more time than wanted. For more time than what would be safe.

He needed to get out. Now. And he did.

The ramshackle building falling in his stead, he walked out to the lake, darkness closing in on the horizon. Going back where he came, he marched home, working his way around the edge of the lake.

His sense of safety returned to him slowly. However, too soon he thought himself secure enough to stop. Boots stopped on a little pier hanging over the water, singing crickets and frogs chimed into the evening. 

What a nice day if not for the murderer waiting around the corner.

Tripping his way over a tree root and back into the brush, the teen cut his knee then sought out the edge of the water again. Yeah, yeah. He's a teenager. He's 17, reckless, stupid, and poor— and he knew that the choice he'd made to be here encompassed all of those facts.

However, he couldn't think of anything other than how much his knee hurt and how dark the line of trees had gotten. The leaves grew too thick to let the darkening sky through to the ground and the woods were filled with many more things to trip over than a simple root.

He stopped and felt the bleed of his cut. It'd be fine, he supposed. If you consider "fine" as standing in a murderer's dump, in the dark, and in pain.

The dark began to fill his eyes like a vignette over a photograph. It pulled at the corners of his sight, filling in and stretching things that aren't there.

Oh, he really shouldn't be here. He couldn't even see the road from here. He couldn't even see the road.

Leaves crunched at his left, a snapping at his back, and his phone rang in his pocket. 

"Oh! Shoot!" Frantic, he clawed his phone out of his jeans, fumbling around with the block in hand. Yeesh, he was freaked out by a phone call.

"Uh- hello? Mom?"

"..Vaughn, honey, whe.."

Something pushed him into the lake. The phone flew out of his hand and followed his decent. The water made no sound as it enveloped him.

His arms and legs seemed to move against his will— against his want to swim up to the surface. The air above shone as one huge bubble, shadows pushing it further and further and further and further away. The darkness had no more light shining in. 

He drowned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could have ended the act here, but noooo, I had to be like... what if? But... what if??  
> And now there’s several more chapters in this act and it’s getting out of hand.


End file.
